I blame the plot bunnies! All I wanted to do was sleep but the question 'How does Mycroft find out about Sherlock's "death" and how does he take it?' kept popping into my head. So here is my weird little one-shot answer. Yay.

When Dr Watson walked silently back into the ball room, Mycroft knew something was wrong. Panic swirled in his stomach but he shook his head. He was just over reacting. If John was alone, maybe Sherlock was elsewhere. There was no need to panic. He watched as John's eyes scanned the room, passing over the dancers, the ambassadors, the presidents and their wives, the security and the butlers that were walking around with the best white wine in Europe. The panic in Mycroft's chest grew as John spotted him and started, slowly, making his way through the crowd towards the elder Holmes. Simza seemed to appear out of thin air next to Mycroft, her eyes red and puffy from crying, as John reached them.

"Mycroft, may I speak with you in private?" He asked quietly. His voice was strained, as if he was trying to keep down a great deal of emotion. Mycroft nodded, leading the way out of the magnificent room. He was sure that John was holding Simza by the arm and directing her to follow him. He led them into one of the private rooms and turned as John helped Simza sit in one of the velvet red armchairs with the plush cushions.

"Dr Watson. What did you want to tell me?" Even to his own ears, Mycroft knew his voice sounds emotionless, cool and like ice and, for the first time in his life, he hated it. John took a deep breath and looked at Mycroft.

"It's Hol-" He paused and then said, "Sherlock. He's dead."

Mycroft froze, trying desperately to understand what John said. It was simple, logical, but Mycroft's mind wouldn't process it. Eventually, he croaked out, "How?"

"Moriarty. They were on the balcony, fighting I believe, and, when I entered, Sherlock threw both himself and Moriarty off the balcony." John explained, diverting his gaze. Mycroft's hand reached out for a chair or a desk to steady himself so he didn't fall. Sherlock couldn't be dead. Maybe it was a trick, a hoax, like he played when he was five. Simza, already distraught by Rene's death, burst into tears and buried her head in her hands. She didn't know Sherlock like Mycroft or John did, but two deaths in one night was obviously too much for the French gypsy. Mycroft placed a hand over his mouth, feeling hot tears well up in his eyes.

His little brother was dead. And, even though Mycroft knew there was a seventy five per cent chance it wasn't his fault, he felt guilt welling up inside him. One single tear traced its way down his cheek and he did everything in his power to prevent himself from bursting into tears. He clenched his jaw and stalked from the room, going somewhere, anywhere, where he could have just one moment of privacy. Not that it do him much good. He was the last Holmes now. And, even though there was a small voice in the back of his head telling him it wasn't, it was his fault.

Well, that was random. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, though if I did, Moriarty would be the only one to fall over that waterfall and Mycroft and Sherlock would have a better sibling relationship! Anyway, please review? Cuz the little button below this that says 'Review' is lonely.

That's for reading. Byes!